Recently, I scratched my knee in a very elegant attempt at jumping a broken fence. Yes, I realize I sound like a seven-year-old, but sometimes you’ve got to indulge the child within and do something a little foolish. Cindy-Lou insists that I should never jump another fence because I only ever get hurt in the process.
Anyways, I was examining the lovely scab I have now attained and it runs over an old scar. Now, I can’t for the life of me remember where I got this scar from. It’s quite large and must have been a hell of a cut, but where the hell did I get it from? Then I started examining my skin, and noticed a lot more scars that I couldn’t remember the origins of.
This led me to the thought that my skin has a memory all its own. It has a life linked and connected with mine, but I don’t share its memories. I felt like I was looking at a roadmap of my life that I couldn’t read or comprehend.
Each scar is an event, a place on the map where something vital or painful happened and I can’t understand it. Sure, there are some places on my map that I can remember vividly, like my surgery scar. But others, nicks and scraps, escape me.
We have our own roadmaps to our lives and our memories are so limited that we can’t even remember how to read them. But, no matter how many stops we have on our roadmaps we’re still beautiful. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the “scars are so sexy” type. No, I mean that no matter how many imperfections, indentations, blemishes, and scars appear on our person it’s just a testament to who we are. Our stories are written on our skin, and I for one think that nature can make such beauty after destruction, even if it’s the destruction of a few skin cells.
I’m proud of every scar on my body. I learnt something from each one and even if I don’t remember it I’m sure I no longer walk on wet logs or run on a wet pool side for a reason.